


The ImpaLatte

by vedaine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cat Burglars, Coffee Shop Owner Dean Winchester, M/M, Neighbors, Rimming, Sexual Roleplay, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15835056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vedaine/pseuds/vedaine
Summary: A classic Destiel coffee shop AU—with no angst and lots of caffeine. Featuring barista Dean, writer Castiel, experimental lattes, an accidental cat burglary, some pirate roleplay, and an unconventional cure for writer’s block.





	The ImpaLatte

It was 5 AM, which meant two things for Dean: one, that the ImpaLatte was open for business, and two, that the adorably neurotic writer would be in any minute.

The man came in every morning with bags under his beautiful blue eyes and patchy scruff on his chiseled jaw, would order a large coffee, and would sit at the table in the back. He’d sip the coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste, as he typed feverishly on his laptop.

Like clockwork, the man walked in the door minutes after Dean unlocked it.

“Large coffee. Black.” No pleasantries, no ‘please.’ The man’s low, gravelly voice was rough with sleep, or maybe with lack of sleep. The man shoved money at Dean—exact change for the coffee—and rubbed his eyes while he waited for Dean to pour a mug.

“Here you go,” Dean said, sliding the coffee over to the man.

The man mumbled something that could be interpreted as a thanks, and sat at his regular table, pulling his laptop out of a messenger bag. He cracked his knuckles, and his fingers began to fly over the keyboard.

The bad weather that morning—over six inches of snow the previous night—was making business slow for Dean. Not just slow, non-existent. Within half an hour of opening, only the writer had shown up. Dean had no problem coming to work—he lived in the apartment above the coffee shop—but the other man must live nearby and walked through the snow, in the dark, to get there. Dean looked over the man, noting slush on his shoes and the slightly damp cuffs of his pants. The man was determined, if nothing else.

Bored, and already looking at the writer, Dean kept examining him. The man had been coming in consistently for the past two months. He was lean and, under his baggy cardigan and skinny jeans, it was clear the man had an athletic build. His midnight black-blue hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions as if the man didn’t own a comb. Maybe he didn’t, or maybe he just didn’t care about his appearance. Maybe he was just effortlessly attractive.

The man took another sip of coffee and made a disgusted face.

Without thinking, Dean came around the counter and walked over to the writer, plopping himself in the armchair across from him.

“Y’know, if you don’t like black coffee, you don’t have to drink it.”

“What?” The man looked up, startled and confused.

“I can make you something other than black coffee if you don’t like it. Like lattes, mochas, sweetened stuff.”

“I like black coffee.”

“No you don’t, buddy. It’s okay not to like black coffee.”

“But it is what mature adults drink,” the man said oddly.

“Who told you that?”

“I… I do not remember.”

“Well, let me tell you a secret, from one mature adult to another. There are way more delicious coffee drinks that you might like. Can I whip you up something else? Please?”

“I do not—”

“On the house, obviously.” Dean looked at the writer, his face earnest and excited, bottle green eyes wide with anticipation.

The writer sighed. “Go ahead. Surprise me.” Abruptly, he began typing again, ignoring Dean.

Dean took the minor slight in stride, springing from the chair and rushing back behind the counter. Five minutes later, he brought his creation—a lavender honey latte—over to the man and sat back down in the seat across from him. Dean’s eyes were locked on the writer as he took a sip.

“There is honey in this?”

“Yes,” said Dean.

“I like honey. This is actually pretty good, um…”

“I’m Dean.”

“This is good, Dean. Thank you.” After another sip and a pregnant pause, the man added, “My name is Castiel.”

“I’m glad you like it, Castiel.”

Dean returned to the counter as another customer, brave enough to slog through the snow, came into the shop. Castiel continued sipping on his latte, not grimacing this time, and he returned to writing.

Over the next two weeks, Dean kept making special drinks for Castiel, at no charge. 

“Here you go, Cas, honey lemon ginger tea. I know it’s not coffee, but it’s got a bunch of honey—locally sourced, too—and I think you’re gonna like it.”

“Cas?”

“Oh, sorry man, it’s just that Castiel is a mouthful and—”

“You misunderstand me. I like it, I am just… I have never had a nickname before,” Castiel said as a faint blush rose across his olive skin.

“Cool, then Cas it is. Enjoy the tea.”

“I expect that I will.”

* * *

Dean paced around his apartment as he held the phone to his ear. It was 11 PM, later than he would like to be awake, given how early he had to wake up in the morning. However, Sam lived out in California and, with the time difference, was just getting home from studying at the library.

“Seriously, Sammy, I can’t deal with the noise.” A new neighbor had moved into the building next to his a few months ago, and Dean could hear music—opera, of all things—through their shared wall.

The walls were thin between buildings. The houses on the street were old and close together, sharing walls and a series of fire escapes. Even though it was chilly outside, Dean had his window facing the fire escape open. In the last week or so, there’d been a black cat who’d appeared at his window, scratching to be let in. Even though he was allergic, Dean had let the cat in—the snow was too deep for the cat to be comfortable outside. Dean had quickly became attached to the cat, letting it in and out as it pleased, and even started taking allergy meds so that he could tolerate it. It was clear the cat wasn’t homeless—it looked well-fed and -groomed—but it didn’t have a collar or tag.

“You know, Dean, you could always just go over there and ask your neighbor to turn it down. And it’s Sam, not Sammy.”

Dean sighed and shut the window; the cat usually stopped by in the afternoons and wouldn’t be coming over this late. “I don’t want to deal with that. You know how uncomfortable confrontation makes me.”

That wasn’t true, and both Dean and Sam knew it. Dean had been a bit of a ‘wild child’ in his youth, and had been extremely confrontational. Between being expelled from two different high schools for fighting, spending some time in juvie, and explosive arguments with their dad, Dean used to thrive on confrontation. He’d toned it down somewhat in the past few years, but not to the point of being non-confrontational.

“Mmhmm, Dean. Sure.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“You first, jerk.”

Dean smiled. Some things, like his relationship with Sam, never changed. Switching directions, he asked, “So how’s that new girlfriend of yours? Jessica, right?”

“Jess is amazing,” Sam said. Dean could picture the puppy dog eyes Sam was probably making on the other end of the phone. “She’s so smart, and pretty, and I think I might be in love.”

“That’s great, Sammy,” Dean said, swallowing hard. 

It’s not that Sam didn’t deserve a happy relationship—hell, if anyone in Dean’s life did, it was Sam. But Dean hadn’t had a relationship last more than two months, ever. At 32, he was starting to feel like he never would. He knew he was ridiculously attractive—great body, chiseled features, intense green eyes—but partners tended to think that, because he was hot, he wasn’t looking for anything more than hookups.

Dean had never told anyone, especially not Sam, but he was lonely. Not in the I-don’t-have-friends way, since he had Charlie and their weekly game nights, but in the I-want-to-fall-in-love way. Dean dreamed of settling down with the woman—or man, Dean wasn’t picky—of his dreams. Small house, 2.5 kids, white picket fence. The whole package.

“What about you, Dean? Any special ladies in your life?” Sam asked.

“Eh, not really.”

“Not really? So there’s possibly something?”

“There’s someone I’m maybe interested in. Comes into the shop all the time. Cute, mysterious, and some sort of writer. Named Cas. I’ve been trying to flirt with free fancy lattes, but I’m not sure if it’s working.”

“Have you tried talking to her? You know, asking her out, like a normal person would do?”

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um, Cas is a guy.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “I didn’t realize you were—that’s great, I mean—how long have you known that—”

Dean chuckled. “I’ve known I was bi since 7th grade, Sammy. Don’t you remember Benny? And all the ‘wrestling practice’ we’d do outside of school?”

“Oh. Oh! I, um, no. I hadn’t realized. Makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy. It’s no—aw fuck, hang on.” Dean walked over to the wall and started pounding, trying to get the neighbor to turn down their music. “Fucker just started playing Wagner.”

“Dean, how do you know what Wagner sounds like?”

“I looked it up. So sue me.”

“I’m not in law school yet, Dean. Maybe in a few years.”

“Yeah yeah, smartass. I’ll talk to you later. Send Jess my love.”

“Okay, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

* * *

The coffee shop was thankfully empty as Dean felt a headache kicking in. It was a quiet afternoon and he wasn’t expecting a rush anytime soon, so Dean decided to shut the shop for a few hours and head upstairs. Maybe a few hours of napping in the dark would help.

Flipping the sign to ‘Closed,’ Dean headed upstairs and quietly unlocked his apartment, trying to avoid both making too much noise and turning on the lights. Loud sounds and bright lights had always made his headaches worse.

In the dim light, Dean saw a figure moving through his apartment. Someone was breaking in. They’d probably snuck in through the cat’s open window and hadn’t expected Dean back so soon.

Soundlessly moving towards the figure, Dean pulled his fist back and socked the man right in the eye.

“Ow, fuck.”

Dean recognized that gravelly voice. Flipping the lights on, he saw Castiel holding his face and glaring at Dean.

“Cas?”

“I am not breaking in, Dean. I did not realize that this was your apartment, but I am just looking for Claire.”

“Um, is Claire your girlfriend? ‘Cause I can tell you, I don’t have her here, man. If she’s cheating on you, that sucks, but it’s not with me.”

“Yes, she is cheating on me. But Claire’s not my girlfriend, she is my cat. She keeps slipping her collar off when she leaves my apartment, and I thought I saw her climb in through your window, so I figured I should follow her, and then I could not find a light switch, and I do not see Claire anywhere, and I am worried about her, and I—”

“Calm down, Cas. Claire is the black cat, right? She’s probably hanging out in my laundry basket. That’s where she usually is when I get home.”

“Oh god, she is here a lot? I am so sorry about that. She has always been such a good cat, but she is not a fan of this new apartment.” Castiel gestured vaguely at the wall.

“Wait, you’re the opera dude?”

“Opera… dude?”

“Always playing opera late at night?”

“I am just fucking up this neighbor thing, am I not? My cat keeps breaking into your place, my music disturbs you, and—oh fuck, I just broke into your apartment.”

Dean laughed. “Chill, dude, it’s fine. Let me grab Claire for you.” He strode towards the bedroom.

Castiel had followed him, and was directly behind him as Dean grabbed the cat from the laundry hamper and turned around. Their faces were mere inches from each other’s.

“Cas, dude. Personal space.”

“I apologize, Dean.” Castiel lifted the cat from Dean’s arms and stepped back slightly. A bruise was already starting to form around his eye, and Dean winced.

“No, man, I should be the one apologizing. I’m the one who gave you that shiner, after all.”

The two men awkwardly looked at one another.

“Can I take you out for coffee sometime? Like a date? Or just, you know, to apologize for breaking into your apartment…”

“A date would be awesome, but only if it’s because you’d actually like to go out sometime, not because you feel you need to apologize,” Dean said

“I do,” Castiel said, blushing. “I mean, I have wanted to ask for a while, but I am not super good with people.”

Dean laughed. “I think you’re pretty good with people. But, on the date, could it be something other than coffee? I think I get enough of that at work.”

“I didn’t even think of that. Yes, of course. I’m just going to take Claire back now.” Without even saying ‘goodbye,’ Castiel climbed out the window onto the fire escape and headed back into his own apartment.

Dean smiled, and then realized that they’d forgotten to exchange phone numbers. He debated knocking on the wall to make Castiel come back, but decided to wait until he saw him the next morning at the shop. Although the weird conversation with Castiel had temporarily distracted Dean from the headache, it came back with a vengeance. Dean laid down and quickly fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Dean opened at 5 AM as normal, excited to see Castiel. He hadn’t realized the other man returned his crush, but now he couldn’t think about anything except the writer. Personality-wise, Dean could actually see himself settling down with the man. The night before he’d had a dream, in which the two of them were looking into buying a house. The dream had quickly devolved as the two of them had found a house and then ‘christened’ each room in it, starting with Dean bending Castiel over the kitchen island. Dean had woken up at 4 AM painfully erect, and had had to take care of himself in the shower before coming downstairs to open the shop.

By 6 AM, Castiel hadn’t shown up, and Dean was worried. He wished he had gotten Castiel’s phone number the previous night so that he could shoot the other man a quick text.

His mind was racing through reasons why the writer wasn’t there. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was freaking out about the previous day, and hadn’t really meant to ask Dean out, and was regretting it. Maybe the punch last night had caused a concussion and Castiel was unconscious. 

By 7 AM, Dean was kicking the patrons out of the shop, switching its sign to ‘Closed,’ and heading up to his apartment. He climbed out onto the fire escape and made his way over to Castiel’s window. The window was unlatched, so Dean popped it open and stuck his head through.

“Cas?” Dean called into the dark apartment.

Castiel, clad only in boxers, stumbled into the room. His hair was crazier than usual, his blue eyes dilated fully, and his hands were shaking.

“Dean?”

“Holy shit, Cas, you look terrible. What’s going on?”

“What?” Castiel asked, confused. “I have got a deadline today. I am dealing with a small amount of writer’s block. Why are you here this early?”

Dean was suddenly embarrassed for having overreacted to Castiel’s absence. “It’s 7 AM, Cas. You’re usually at the shop around 5, and I was worried, and I’m sorry, that was stupid of me, you don’t owe me your presence every morning, it’s just—”

“Shit, it is already 7? I still have this one scene to write, and I am not—”

“Calm down, Cas. Sit for a minute and talk to me. I don’t think you ever told me what kind of stuff you write. What sort of scene is it? Maybe I can help.”

“I write… romance novels, actually. Under the pen name Carver Edlund.”

“Oh fuck, I’ve heard of you. I’ve actually read one of your books; there isn’t a lot of gay romance lit out there, and you’re one of the best. Aren’t you on the bestseller list right now?”

“Yes, and that is the problem. Everyone is expecting another great book from me, and it is good so far, but there is this sex scene that I am struggling to write.”

“Give me an overview of the scene,” Dean said, a plan hatching in his mind.

“Okay, I guess I can do that? The characters are a virginal pirate captain and a saucy bartender. The pirate ship is in port for a few days, and the bartender has intentions to seduce the captain. Eventually, they fall in love, and the bartender leaves the island to live on the ship. But it is just not coming together the way I had hoped.”

“It sounds sweet. Don’t beat yourself up because something you’re trying to build from scratch doesn’t meet all your expectations the first time around. Trust me, I know.”

“Dean, it’s not that I don’t respect you and your profession, but there’s a fairly large gulf between making creative lattes and creating a novel.”

Dean looked puzzled before working out what Castiel was saying. “I’m not talking about making coffee, Cas. I’m not a barista.”

Castiel squinted at Dean. “What?”

“I’m a small business owner. I started ImpaLatte from the ground up. I only work there myself to keep overhead down.”

“Now I feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. You made an idiotic assumption, sure. But it’s all good, I’m not insulted. There’s nothing wrong with just being a barista.”

Castiel nodded. He was starting to shake again, clearly stressing out about his deadline. Dean put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, holding the writer steady.

“You know, I missed you this morning. I was hoping to serve my strong, virginal pirate captain a special drink to let him know how much I like him.” Dean brought the two of them closer together.

“Um, Dean? What are you doing?”

“Play along,” Dean whispered. Louder, he continued in a sultry voice, “I know your ship’s only in port for a few more days, but I think we could have a lot of fun.” Dean nuzzled Castiel’s jaw, feeling the other man’s stubble against his own, cleanly shaven face.

“I… oh! Um, yes, I think that could be arranged.”

“Take me to your ship’s cabin, captain,” Dean purred. At Castiel’s puzzled look, Dean nibbled on the writer’s earlobe and whispered, “that’s your bedroom.”

Blushing, Castiel grabbed Dean’s arm and led him to his room. He scooped Claire off his bed, dropped her into the living room, and shut the bedroom door.

“Dean—”

“My captain—” Dean brought their mouths together, Castiel’s slightly chapped lips rough against his own plush ones. Castiel froze for a second before opening his mouth and letting Dean’s tongue in to explore.

As the kiss deepened, Castiel’s boxers were quickly tented with his growing erection and both men began scrambling to get Dean’s clothes off. Castiel worked the buttons on Dean’s green flannel shirt while Dean unbuckled his belt, slipped his jeans down, and kicked them and his shoes off.

Without breaking the kiss, Dean backed Castiel towards the bed. When the mattress hit the back of the writer’s knees, Dean gently pressed the other man down to sit on the bed.

“Let me take care of you, captain. Let me make you feel good,” Dean said.

Dean pushed Castiel’s torso down so he was mostly lying on the bed with his feet still on the ground. Getting to his knees in front of Castiel, Dean hovered his fingers over the other man’s boxers’ waistband.

Breaking character for a moment, Dean whispered to Castiel, “Is this okay? Can I—”

“Wench, if you do not put those cocksucking lips to use in the next ten seconds, I will make you walk the fucking plank,” Castiel growled, then whispered, “I am clean.”

Dean yanked down Castiel’s boxers as his own cock became fully hard. Castiel, both getting into the role playing and talking dirty. Dean had never been more turned on in his life. Licking a stripe from the base of Castiel’s cock up to the weeping slit, Dean opened his mouth and took the writer’s cock down to the base.

On the bed, Castiel keened. “Oh god, Dean—I mean, wench—no, fuck it, pirate shit over, god Dean your mouth feels incredible.”

Dean hummed around Castiel’s cock, bobbing up and down, with the writer’s circumsized length—a considerable length, though not too girthy—hitting the back of Dean’s throat every pass.

“I need—Dean, I need to—god, Dean—I need to fuck your face.” Castiel was gripping the sheets tightly, trying hard to not thrust into the other man’s mouth.

Dean hummed again, giving his permission. After a misspent youth, a few years of sluttiness while trying to ‘find’ himself, and an extended stay in an all-male juvenile detention center, Dean had no gag reflex left.

Castiel sat up, letting go of the sheets and bringing his hands to Dean’s short, dirty blonde hair. He quickly began thrusting into Dean’s mouth, watching spit run out the corners of his plush lips. He pushed Dean’s head deeply into his crotch, his cock blocking the other man’s throat, and held him there as Dean’s air supply was cut off. Dean swallowed several times around Castiel’s cock, his throat muscles massaging the tip, before Castiel pulled back, allowing Dean to take several deep breaths.

“Incredible, Dean. You are so beautiful. I cannot believe we waited so long to get together.”

Dean looked up at Castiel, the green of his eyes only a sliver around his blown-out pupils.

“I want to fuck you, Cas.”

Castiel groaned. “I want you to fuck me, Dean. Please.” He reached into his nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom. He passed the lube to Dean but hesitated with the condom. “Are you clean?”

“Yes. Tested since my last relationship.”

“Fuck, good. Same.” Castiel tossed the condom back in the drawer. “I want you to fill me up, mark me inside, let me feel your cum running down my thighs so that I know I belong to you.”

Dean had to grab the base of his cock to keep from shooting his load right then. “God, Cas. The mouth on you. Flip over.”

Castiel hesitated, suddenly shy. “I would… rather be able to see you,” he said quietly.

“I want to see you too, babe. Don’t worry, this is just to prep you. You can bet your ass we’re going to be face-to-face before I start fucking you.”

Castiel shuddered and moved up the bed, on his hands and knees. Dean poured the lube on his fingers but, when the writer felt something wet brush across his asshole, he knew it was too warm to be the lube.

“Dean! Your tongue, oh god yes.”

Dean worked his tongue in and out of Castiel’s hole, enjoying the mewling noises coming out of the other man, before slipping a finger in alongside his tongue. As Castiel moaned, Dean began to pump his finger in and out, feeling the tight heat of his ass. Pulling his mouth away, Dean added a second finger and began to search for Castiel’s prostate. Curling his fingers forward, he found the sensitive gland and gently brushed over it. Castiel cried out, and Dean softly bit the other man’s ass cheek.

Within ten minutes, Dean had worked up to four fingers. Castiel had been telling him that he was ready starting when Dean was only two fingers in, but Dean knew that his own considerable girth would be too painful without thorough prepping.

“Turn over, Cas. Let me see you.”

As Dean pulled off his boxers, fully nude finally, Castiel rolled over. His hair was even more of a mess, his blue eyes were glazed over, and his olive skin was flushed.

“Dean—I… I need you… please—”

“I got you, babe.” Dean lined up his cock with Castiel’s loosened hole, and slowly pushed in. Once he was in to his hilt, wiry pubic hair brushing against Castiel’s perineum, Dean paused, giving Castiel a chance to adjust to the large cock.

“Fuck me, Dean. Fuck me hard. Fuck me like a fucking whore. I want you to pound me into the mattress so rough that I am unable to walk tomorrow.”

That hadn’t been the reaction Dean was expecting—Castiel seemed so meek sometimes—but he was more than willing to follow those instructions. This version of Castiel—dirty mouthed and domineering—was pushing all of Dean’s buttons just right. Pulling out sharply until just his cockhead was inside Castiel, Dean rammed back in. Castiel moved his legs around Dean, hooking his ankles together to provide more leverage, meeting each thrust with a roll of his own hips.

“You fucking whore. You’re my fucking whore. I’m going to fill you up, I’m going to ruin you, ruin you for every person who isn’t me.”

“Dean, please. Yours, only yours. Your whore. Ruin me.”

Curling over Castiel, Dean sunk his teeth into the writer’s neck, leaving a bruise. He picked up the pace, snapping his hips against Castiel, moving angles so that he was touching the other man’s prostate every few thrusts.

Dean wasn’t going to last for much longer, so he reached down between the two men and began to stroke Castiel’s cock. With only two strokes, Castiel gasped and threw his head back, painting their stomachs white with cum.

“God, Cas,” Dean said, as Castiel’s asshole fluttered around his cock, pulsing with the aftermath of his orgasm. “I’m cumming—”

With a groan, Dean orgasmed, white spots dancing in front of his eyes, his cum filling Castiel. Both men were panting and staring into each other’s eyes, bottle green meeting sea blue. Dean gently stroked Castiel’s face, tenderly circling the bruise around his right eye. He brought Castiel in for a tender kiss as he pulled his softening cock out, Castiel moaning at the loss, his hole still fluttering as it slowly pumped cum out.

“Let me grab a washcloth, babe.” Dean stood up and headed for the bathroom. When he returned, Castiel had pulled out his laptop and was rapidly typing.

“You did it. You solved my problem,” Castiel said, staring intensely at the screen. Chuckling, Dean wiped the cum off of Castiel’s stomach and gently between the other man’s legs. Dean tossed the washcloth on the floor and curled around Cas.

“Good.”

Dean yawned and shut his eyes. He could leave the shop closed today, he figured. He hadn’t taken a vacation in years, and he was probably overdue. To the soft sound of typing, Dean fell asleep.

“I hope this is how all my books get written from now on,” Castiel whispered to Dean’s sleeping form. “I think I love you.”

“Love you too, captain,” the not-quite-sleeping man muttered. 

Castiel turned red, not having expected Dean to hear him, but smiled slightly to himself. “Go to sleep, wench.”

* * *

Dean cried when he saw the dedication page of Castiel’s new book: ‘To Dean, my wench, my love. Forever yours, forever your captain.’ And with the profits from his latest bestseller, ‘The Wench’s Captain,’ pouring in, Castiel started paying for the creative latte drinks his boyfriend, lover, and soon-to-be fiancé (assuming Dean was going to say yes) made for him.


End file.
